


sparks (or, how things don't always turn out like you expect)

by stickmarionette



Series: glorious compromise [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Leo Messi alway faces him with the same tranquil look, but sometimes Jose catches a glimpse of the resentment that must lie buried inside out of the corner of his eyes, and he finds it - cute. Almost.</i>  Jose Mourinho replaces Frank Rijkaard as coach of Barcelona at the beginning of 08-09.  He and Leo are inevitably unconvinced by each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sparks (or, how things don't always turn out like you expect)

Leo Messi alway faces him with the same tranquil look, but sometimes Jose catches a glimpse of the resentment that must lie buried inside out of the corner of his eyes, and he finds it - cute. Almost.

Oh, but the boy must hate him so. A player as good - as focused - as he is doesn't forget. And Leo was always awfully close to Frank Rijkaard. Some part of him must blame Jose for what happened - not to mention the whole mess with selling Ronaldinho.

And then there's that 'Catalunya is a place of great theatre' business which still gets Jose abuse from sections of the crowd, mostly when they get bored during an unexciting 1-0 or 2-0 home win.

(Only this club, he thinks, amused. But then he'd already known all about its neurosis, and he still chose to come back. Because while the team is very much a work in progress, the raw ingredients are interesting enough - and ready to be shaped into something better.)

\---

When Leo gets his first injury, Jose thinks: I've dealt with this kind of thing - this brilliance which is too fragile and weak to be of any use - before. Just another Arjen Robben, nothing more. Rather disappointing, really.

Surprisingly, he's wrong.

\---

Sixth game of the season, and he tells Bojan to warm up at half-time after watching Leo beat the entire Athletic defence four times.

Back in the dressing room, Jose tells Leo that he's not going back on for the second half. There's no hint of the expected rebellion in the boy's reaction. Instead, he just looks confused.

"Mister?"

Jose smiles, a little thinly. "Pass the ball. It's not like you don't know how."

Something rebellious does flash through the boy's eyes at that, but it's quickly buried in favour of biting his lip against whatever he wants to say and nodding stiffly.

Amusingly, these little hints of distress are enough to draw Deco over. Or maybe he's just been listening in from the beginning. Jose certainly wouldn't put it past him.

The familiarity of Deco's long-suffering sigh almost brings a smile to his face. He used to be entertained by how obviously fake it was, but these days, it seems surprisingly genuine.

The frustration in his voice certainly seems real enough. "He's - you're - Look, you don't have to beat anything into him. He's not one of those immature brats."

_If you're going to get sloppy and leave me an opening like that..._

"That's funny, coming from you."

"I -" Deco snaps his mouth shut with an effort.

"It's okay, Deco," Leo says softly, fingers clenched tight over his shirtsleeves.

He holds Jose's gaze for a moment before speaking again. "I'll try, Mister."

"Good."

" - but, I've always played the same way," follows him out of the dressing room, quiet but clear enough that he's definitely supposed to be hearing it.

\---

Okay, so he's not entirely like Robben. He's still far too injury-prone at the worst times.

Jose's not about to start a half-fit player against Real Madrid at home, no matter who he is.

* * *

Half time, and they're 2-0 down. Even Puyol looks a bit dispirited.

The starters part for Leo like the red sea as he walks into the room with the rest of the subs trailing behind him. Jose's carefully arranged dressing room hierarchy, shattered so casually. He doesn't know whether to be amused or disgusted.

Deco is hovering again, drawn to the shockingly obvious internal battle fighting itself out all over Leo's face, but the boy comes straight up to Jose.

It takes Leo a moment to choke the word out, and even then it's in a whisper.

"P-please."

Ah. He's won, it seems. "Hmm?"

A deep breath before he can go on. "Please let me play, Mr Mourinho. I promise, I'll do whatever you say."

For the first time, the fractures that he always knew would be there - oh-so-carefully hidden from view most of the time - are almost visible, reflected in Leo's wide, wide eyes.

The situation really is pretty dire out there, but Jose has to bite back a smile. "You're not fully fit."

"But I can help out there. You know I can." Leo's nails - bitten down to jagged edges - dig into his arm painfully. "You _know_."

The entire dressing room is holding its breath by this point, all the players finally giving up their pathetic pretense of not listening in on the conversation.

Jose smiles. "Well, what are you all waiting for? Go out and win this damn game."

* * *

Before Leo goes on, Jose puts an arm around his shoulder like Rijkaard used to, the weight of it intended as encouragement, but it must almost feel like restraint. Strange that he seems to relax a little underneath it.

* * *

(Even Jose forgets, at times, that some games contain no losers.)

* * *

Samuel scores twice in quick succession, the second off a simple Leo pass. 2-2, the previously deathly silent stadium now shaking with the roars of the faithful, and the Real players look shell-shocked.

Then Leo gets the ball somewhere near the half-way line. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't look up, just - runs. (The way he goes past players isn't pretty or fanciful. It just happens - brutally quick, like a dagger thrust into the heart of the opposition - and that suits Jose just fine.) He beats one, two, all of them, and just as the stadium holds its collective breath in anticipation - passes to Andres for a tap-in.

After he manages to extract himself from the ensuing celebrations, Leo stands on the pitch, alone. A casual observer might think he's just soaking up the atmosphere, the chanting, the adulation.

They might not notice his eyes fixed on the bench, calm as still water.

After the game, Jose extracts himself from the clutches of journalists when he's had enough of being congratulated for his spot-on game-changing substitutions to go and give Leo a pat on the back.

There's no hint of residue nerves or even much excitement left over in the clear eyes facing him. Jose is impressed despite himself.

"Well done," he says casually, along with:

"You still dribble too much."

Unbelievably, Leo laughs in response. The sound is light and he suddenly looks his age again.

"Thank you, Mister."

\---

They lose to Liverpool in the Champions League semis. (Jose's beginning to think that Benitez's put some sort of curse on him.) Leo cries in the dressing room, and no one can get him to stop, or even speak a single word.

Not even Deco, who eventually points Jose to the corner that Leo's retreated into and says, rather pointedly, "_you_ try."

Jose takes one look at the mop of hair hiding his tear-stained face, grips Leo's shoulders - small shoulders, and damn if that's not obvious right now - and has to resist the urge to shake him.

"Listen. Next year. We'll win next season."

Leo's head snaps up. The look in his eyes is one that Jose recognises - one that he sees in the mirror now and then. He doesn't just hate losing. He's been taught to fear and hate the _consequences_, which is a lesson that runs far deeper.

(Jose's always believed that the gift of a truly great manager, like that of a good preacher, is conviction, and the ability to spread it to others.)

"We will."

Leo looks away. When he speaks, his voice is so quiet that Jose has to strain to hear. "...maybe you are a bit like Mr Rijkaard after all."

  


He has found through the years that belief is a funny thing -

\- a tiny spark is enough to light a towering blaze.


End file.
